She'll Never Live

by Hunter Morgan

  There were teens in the crowd, too. Good-looking young men and girls wearing rash guards over their board shorts and bikinis. They wore sunglasses manufactured by companies like Dragon and Arnette and carried three-hundred-dollar boogie boards and chilled bottles of Evian water.

  The pedestrian signs on both sides of the street flashed a warning and the beach-bound throng hurried the last few steps, moving as if of one mind. There were tall men, short men, fat ones and skinny ones. Chubby babies in strollers and sullen pre-teens. But none of them held his attention like the blonde he spotted on the far side of the crosswalk.

  He generally liked his women between eighteen and twenty-five. His mother had only been nineteen when she had him. Marcy—no, Phoebe, he corrected himself—had been older, but she had been an exception.

  He felt his pulse quicken as a woman wearing denim shorts and a pink bikini top ran the last few steps to the curb, her blond ponytail sailing behind her.

  The Bloodsucker gripped the steering wheel.

  Someone honked behind him. The light had turned green.

  He lifted his foot off the brake and moved it slowly to the gas pedal, still watching, enthralled. She was wearing sunglasses, but he knew she had blue eyes. He had seen them up close yesterday. Eyes as blue as those in the picture in his wallet.

  Another honk. An SUV behind him whipped around, passing on his left.

  The Bloodsucker was tempted to flip him the bird, but he didn't. Never draw attention to yourself. It was one of the rules he had drawn up before he began this journey. In a town as small as Albany Beach, even flipping off a tourist would get around and he was foolish to risk that. Besides, it was just plain rude.

  The Bloodsucker tore his gaze from the blonde. He had to concentrate on the road before he hit something. He had to release her.

  Loosening his grip on the steering wheel, flexing his fingers, he took a deep breath and directed his attention to the street and the traffic buzzing around him.

  He'd been thinking a lot about Ashley, but he wasn't ready for her yet. Ashley would take time, planning. He needed something quick. Something easy. Something that would quiet the buzzing, the voice in his head.

  Just the thought of the blood... the imaginary scent of it, warm and metallic, filled his nostrils. He needed that young woman he had seen on the street.

  A woman in a ball cap passed in a convertible VW bug and waved at him. He smiled. Waved back.

  But she wasn't blond, so his smile wasn't genuine. She didn't make him feel the way the blondes did.

  The Bloodsucker signaled, turned onto another street. He was thinking about the young woman he had seen in the crosswalk, again. She lived with a roommate in an apartment in a complex. On Tuesdays, after work, she did her laundry at the Laundromat on the corner of Spruce and Main. Marissa. That was her name. Marissa Spicer. Even at this distance, he could almost hear her calling his name.

  Chapter 10

  "You talk to Dad?"

  Ashley's voice startled Claire. Even though they were pretty much spending twenty-four hours a day together, the teen had barely spoken to her in the last week.

  The investigation of Chain had gone nowhere. The same went for José and his uncle. The FBI profiler's report had been very interesting. Much of the findings had reiterated the conclusions Claire had already drawn about the killer's personality, but she still felt no closer to him. In the meantime, the pressure was on. She'd talked to Kurt twice in the last few days.

  The arrival of the task force was imminent; this morning two workmen had arrived to add additional phone lines in the conference room in the basement where it had been decided the task force would operate. Sometime in the next few days, Claire's station would be inundated with state police and she would turn her investigation over to Kurt. The idea left a sour taste in her mouth, but she really had no choice.

  Claire realized Ashley was staring at her. Waiting.

  "Um.. , no. No, I didn't talk to him. He's dodging my calls again. I think he thinks I'm calling to get more money out of him." Claire pulled her sunglasses off and slid them onto the dash of the cruiser. It was almost seven-thirty; her father would be having a fit because they were late. Claire had said she and Ashley would be there for dinner and bring chicken salad from the diner. It was her father's favorite.

  "So... you still going to talk to him about me going to Utah to live with him?" Ashley asked cautiously.

  Claire exhaled; she had so many things to think about that she felt as if her mind were going to explode. "I don't know, Ash."

  "Because I don't want to go."

  Claire signaled. Turned. "I think you've already established that."

  "And you really don't have a reason to send me away, now. I mean, if you really thought Chain was killing people, you'd have arrested him by now."

  Claire cut her eyes at her daughter. They were leaving the house so early in the morning that Ashley was barely getting time for a shower. The first couple of days she came into the office, she brought her makeup with her. Two days running now, though, she hadn't bothered with the black eyeliner or lipstick. Even with the black hair, she looked more like the old Ashley than Claire had seen in months.

  "Arresting someone is not as easy as you might think," Claire told her daughter. "You have to have evidence that you think someone might have committed a crime. Physical evidence."

  "So you're admitting that you know Chain isn't the killer."

  "I'm not admitting anything." Claire pulled into the diner parking lot. "I'm going to grab Grampa's chicken salad. You want to stay here or are you coming in?" She reached into the glove compartment for her wallet.

  "Actually, I was wondering." Ashley actually made eye contact with her mother. "Could I go across the street to the drugstore and get some stuff?"

  "I said you weren't to go out of my sight."

  "Mom, you can't see me in the break room at the station when you're at City Hall."

  "That's different. I've got all the cops in Albany Beach watching you, then."

  To Claire's surprise, Ashley smiled.

  Claire couldn't help but smile back. Graham was right. Ashley really was, basically, a good kid. She'd just gotten a little sidetracked this summer and Claire knew very well that she had to take some of the blame. "What do you need?"

  Ashley screwed up her face in typical teenage grimace. "You need particulars like whether I'm going for the juniors or the heavy flow?"

  Claire pulled a twenty out of her wallet and tossed it on the seat between them. "Make it snappy. I can hear Grampa bellyaching from here."

  Claire and Ashley got out of the car at the same time; Claire headed for the diner door and Ashley made a beeline across the parking lot.

  "Chain better not be waiting for you in that store," Claire warned.

  Ashley rolled her eyes and ran to cross the street before the light changed.

  Seeing her run like a kid made Claire smile. And she was beginning to think she would never smile again.

  At the step to the diner, Claire shifted her focus. She told her parents she'd be happy to bring the chicken salad for dinner, but not because it was important to her that her father get his weekly dose of chicken salad. She was here because it was Tuesday, two-for-one burger night, and she knew Ryan McCormick stopped for burgers every Tuesday night after a workout at the gym, when he wasn't pulling a shift.

  She was hoping to catch a glimpse of him outside the job; she wanted to see him the way others saw him. She still thought Graham was wrong about him; she didn't really see him as a suspect, but he did fit the profile provided by the FBI, in some ways, and she was determined to check out every possibility.

  The place was busy and there was a line at the cash register where the new waitress was ringing diners up. Claire took a seat on one of the stools at the lunch counter. "Be right with you, Chief," Loretta hollered.

  She was taking orders from a table of six. They were all realtors with Waterfront Realty and Seth Watkins—her pee-ver
t—was among them. He was seated between two women; both were laughing at something he had said and seemed to find him quite charming. She wondered if they would be laughing if they knew about the little stunt he had pulled in Vegas.

  Behind that table was another group, this one larger. Hospital employees. They were at a table for six, but someone had squeezed in another two chrome and vinyl chairs. The women all wore white pants and colorful smocks. The two guys in the group were more subdued; Cam Putnam who worked in X-ray was wearing a pale green scrub top and matching bottoms. The other guy, Kevin James, wore his paramedic uniform. He was either just getting off or just going on shift. Everyone seemed to be having a good time at the table; it was apparently one of the women's birthdays.

  Claire moved on. Mayor Tugman was there, too, in the booth behind the Gomezs. Fortunately, he hadn't spotted her yet. He was occupied with a conversation with Mary Tyler, city councilwoman, and the plate of meat loaf, mashed potatoes and green beans in front of him.

  The bell over the diner's door jangled and out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Ryan walk in. Bingo. Another man and woman came in right behind him. Alan Bradford, from the hospital, and Laree Carmen, a librarian's assistant in the school district.

  "Hey, Alan. You decide to join us after all?" one of the young women called from the table of hospital employees.

  "Can't. Not tonight, but thanks." Alan waited at the cash register.

  "Can you wait one sec, Chief?" Loretta laid her hand on Claire's shoulder as she went by. "Alan called in."

  "Sure," Claire answered cheerfully. She didn't know if McCormick had seen her before, but he certainly saw her now.

  "Chief." He lifted his square chin in her direction.

  She reciprocated. "Enjoy your day off?"

  He shrugged. He was wearing a pair of light-colored cargo shorts, a tight black long sleeve T-shirt that showed off his work out at the gym, and flip-flops. He removed his sunglasses. "Wasn't bad. Had to take care of some things out at my parents' farm. But I got a chance to hit the beach for an hour. Picked up my dry cleaning. You know." He gestured with his glasses. "You eating in or on your way out?"

  "Stopped to pick up something to take to my parents'. Ashley's waiting for me."

  He nodded. "Well, have a good night, Chief."

  "You, too."

  He walked behind her and she gave him a minute before turning her head to nonchalantly check out where he was headed. He spoke to someone at the realtor's table. Two young women Claire didn't know spoke to him and he leaned on their table, chatting for a moment.

  "Sorry," Loretta huffed, leaning on the counter in front of Claire. "What can I get you?"

  "A quart of chicken salad. Four croissants."

  "You bet." She pressed her hand to the table and lifted it "Something sticky," she muttered. "José!" When she got no immediate response from the back, she looked at Claire, shaking her head. "I'm run ragged without Ralph. I haven't got enough help and it's not like girls are lining up to take a waitressing job here. I just thank God I got Carol, there." She indicated the waitress behind the cash register.

  "I know," Claire said, resting her hand sympathetically on Loretta's. "You're doing just fine. I can wait. We can all wait."

  "You're a good egg, you know that, Claire?" Loretta turned away. "José! You back there or you takin' another smoke? Don't you know why they call them cancer sticks?"

  When Claire saw Loretta reappear from the back with a plastic quart-size container and a bag, she got up off her stool and walked to the register. As she handed Loretta a twenty, she dared one more glance McCormick's way. He was at the birthday party now, talking to one of the cute nurses who worked in the ER.

  "Nine's your change." Loretta counted out the bills.

  "Thanks."

  Claire walked out of the diner. So she'd gotten what she came for, a glimpse of McCormick off duty. But she really hadn't seen anything other than that he was friendly enough with people. Women liked him.

  In the parking lot, Claire was thankful to see Ashley waiting in the car. She had the window down, leaning out to talk to Alan. As Claire approached, Alan said good-bye to Ashley, gave a wave in Claire's direction, and headed for his car.

  "How do you know Alan?" Claire asked, glancing his way.

  Ashley shrugged. "How do I know half the people in this town? I guess because I live here. He might have come to my biology class or something last year."

  "Get what you needed?" Claire climbed into the car. She handed Ashley the white plastic bag with the chicken salad.

  "Yup." Ashley pointed to the drugstore bag on the floor at her feet.

  "Grandma called your cell. You left it in the car. She says Grampa says he's eating without you."

  Ashley cracked another smile and Claire chuckled with her as she pulled out of the parking lot. Maybe her daughter was right; maybe there was no need to send her to Utah. Maybe this was all going to blow over and they were going to be just fine.

  * * *

  The Bloodsucker sat on a hard plastic chair connected to a line of plastic chairs and looked at a newsmagazine on his lap. Only he wasn't really reading it, he just wanted people to think he was.

  He liked the Laundromat. Even though he had his own washer and dryer at home, he liked to come here sometimes. Liked it even better now that he knew this was where Marissa washed her clothes. He glanced at the industrial-size machine directly in front of him. He was drying a couple of rugs; he'd come here on the pretense that they were too big and bulky to wash at home. Everyone knew there were certain items you didn't wash at home: quilts, blankets, rugs. No one would think it odd that he was here, so long as he didn't come too often.

  He checked his watch. It was beginning to get late. He'd have to go soon. He'd left Max alone long enough tonight. Max was like him; he didn't like being alone.

  The Bloodsucker glanced through the glass windows to the parking lot behind the Laundromat. It was well lit. If Marissa pulled up in her white Civic, he'd see her right away. He had learned early in life that humans were creatures of habit and he hoped she was. He'd been watching her for a week now and last Tuesday night she had done her laundry here.

  He'd learned a lot about her in the last week, just by listening, watching, checking a file that was easy enough to gain access to if a person was clever. Marissa was a commercial artist at a sign shop in town. She painted huge cheeseburgers and businesses' names on road signs while dreaming of being an artist in California. Twenty-two years old and a community college drop-out, she had recently moved out of her parents' house on the western side of the county to live with a roommate she'd known from high school. She didn't have a boyfriend, which he found interesting because she was so pretty. The other thing interesting about her was that she was really into living a healthy lifestyle. She had food allergies so she ate whole grains, and organic vegetables and she exercised regularly.

  The dryer tumbling his rugs buzzed and he closed his magazine, rising slowly from the chair. His legs were a little stiff today. He'd bumped up the weight with his leg presses and he was wondering now if maybe he'd gotten a little overenthusiastic.

  Placing the magazine in his rectangular laundry basket, he set it in front of the dryer. There were only two people left in the Laundromat: a woman and her little boy. But she wasn't a blonde. She didn't interest him. She had two dryers running at once.

  The Bloodsucker opened the dryer door and pulled out the first rug. He took his time folding it. Beside him was a dryer full of clothes that had buzzed and stopped some time ago. Now he could see that it was a woman's clothes.

  Women did that sometimes. Especially young ones. They'd wash a load, throw it in the dryer, then run an errand and come back. Sometimes they were late and didn't make it before the dryer shut off.

  He glanced at the clothes through the round window. Panties. A pink bra. A pale yellow nightshirt. He glanced at the woman with the boy. She was talking on her cell phone, pulling clothes out of the dryer. The li
ttle boy was fussing and she was arguing with the person on the phone. She wasn't paying any attention to the Bloodsucker. She didn't see him, which was the beauty of his existence. He moved in and out of their lives, watching them; everyone saw him and yet no one saw him.

  The Bloodsucker folded his second rug and then, after a quick moment of vacillation, he opened the dryer beside him and reached in. He pulled out an armload of fluffy pastel clothes. His head swam and he closed his eyes for a moment, dizzy, lost in the pleasure of the warm, sweet-smelling underthings. He wanted to bury his face in them, but fought the urge.

  He carried the clothes that smelled April fresh to the folding counter and dropped the pile. The first item he picked up was a pair of panties. He remembered the panties he had found in the trashcan on the beach weeks ago. Marcy's panties. Red. But these were white. Very tiny. Thong. He licked his dry lips and folded them carefully.

  The Bloodsucker's heart pounded as he reached into the pile and picked up a strappy tank top.

  This was dangerous, folding some else's laundry. A stranger's. But it happened sometimes. A good Samaritan would fold a load of laundry that wasn't his or her own and leave it on the counter for the owner to discover when he or she returned. No one could get angry at a man doing a good deed.

  He glanced up at the woman still on the phone as he reveled in the satin feel of the pale green bra in his hands. This delicate piece of lingerie was nothing like the ugly white armor Granny had worn. He pushed one cup into the other, the way he had watched women do on TV, folded in the straps and added it to the growing pile.

  The woman on the phone still paid him no mind. She was carrying a basket of laundry she'd just pulled from the dryer out to her car. Didn't she realize how wrinkled they would be by the time she reached home? Clothes had to be folded fresh out of the dryer, still warm and soft and pliable.